Scars
by Squinterian
Summary: Some people hid their injuries, others flaunted them. PreDoC, Shaluacentric short.


**Scars**

(FF7:DoC pregame short, Shalua-centric)

* * *

In retrospect, a lot of people thought that Avalanche was the only one really fighting Shinra. Well, it wasn't an unreasonable mistake; Avalanche had a big angry man with a gun for an arm with lackeys who painted slogans all over the city, an ex-corp member, an ex-Turk, a turncoat – or two or maybe even three, some said – a couple of vengeful research specimens, several people who had lost their homes and loved ones, a couple of animals and a few who had had their jobs taken away from them – all depending on how you counted, of course. The fact remained that they were natural cover material, a ragtag crew criscrossed with hurts and injuries gained in battles against the corporation that kept popping up on the news over and over again. They looked like the only ones who had stood up and taken the beating. 

This was, however, because most people who were maimed fighting Shinra hid their scars and tried to forget.

Most people.

She knew the eyes to be on her – knew more than felt – even before she saw the old man peering at her through the crack in one doorway on the left. A nosey, jittery neighbour, of that typical lot you got in every single block of houses, especially in places with high crime and low surveillance – or, conversely, high surveillance and zero crime, aside from officially sanctioned cases.

She stopped inconspicuously to adjust the brown shopping bag on her arm, then looked up and smiled directly at the man. The expression was friendly enough at first glance, but there was a message etched in the intensity of her gaze and the curl of the edges of her mouth for those a bit too curious for their own good: _you mind your business and I'll mind mine. If, however, you mind mine, I'll mind yours as well – and trust me, you certainly wouldn't want me to._

Predictably, the door slammed shut.

A quick scan of the surroundings – no one else; in fact, nothing out of ordinary. It was good, if not entirely unexpected. She would have had to drop the paper bag to reach for her gun and she hated the thought of losing a perfectly good box of eggs, which she had thoughtlessly packed at the bottom. Washing the goo off the rest of the groceries wasn't a tempting thought, either. That was something to jot down for the next time: pack the macaroni or the potatoes or other firm, solid things at the bottom and breakable items preferably in the middle, where they were least likely to get squashed by a sudden collision with the ground. Gil was scarce enough, what with all the things she needed to pay for– in bribery or in bullets – to get any knowledge, and although she'd once before been forced to abandon her shoppings in favour of her life, there was no reason to waste resources.

Reaching her own door, she manoeuvred the bag between herself and the wall so that she could reach into her pocket for the keys and open the door. The procedure was awkward and in her mind, she cursed prying neighbours, who would likely be enjoying even this show had they the nerve to be looking.

But she knew why they stared at her. There was little point, beyond her own distraction or whim, to pretend otherwise.

Edge yourself in, squeeze the bag with an arm so that you could grab the handle with your hand and pull the door shut. Deposit the bag by the sink. Shed the long, brown coat – though why bother was questionable because it hung open most of the time and hardly offered much protection from sight – before walking up to the tall, thin, cracked mirror that hung on the wall beside the door.

Trace every single line and curve and malformation upon your body, from the eye that was sewn shut and the battered grey plastic arm, attached above the elbow and looking more like a limb dead from gangrene than a prosthesis, to the multitude of jagged cuts and bumpy ridges adorning her midriff, left behind by emergency surgery under poor conditions. The T-shirt with its hem cut off and the low-riding, torn pants hid very little, if any, of it. Of course people stared.

Spread across her body was a note pad, a journal, her ever-growing list of the things she had done, everything she had sacrificed and all that was still there left to give. Unlike most people who fought Shinra and got hurt in the process, she did not hide her scars away. They were her memory, and she could not afford to forget.

fin.


End file.
